With his pancake heart beating fiercely in his pancake body, he heard them coming—and there was nothing he could do about it...
It was Sunday. And it made the pancake very frightened. On Sunday they were hungry. On Sunday they were hungry for pancakes.
He had no eyes to see—so he couldn’t make his way behind the refrigerator to hide. He had no arms to push the strawberries in front of him—hoping they may want them instead. He had no legs or feet to run away with. All he could do was lay there...lay there and be frightened.
He had ears, all pancakes have ears, and a trembling heart. With his pancake heart beating fiercely in his pancake body, he heard them coming—and there was nothing he could do about it.
So when Sunday morning arrives and you’re sitting at the table with your stack of pancakes slathered in syrup—go ahead—take your fork and pierce those moist pancake bodies and slice them into tender, bite-sized pieces. But remember, the sweetness bursting in your mouth is of a bleeding heart that longed for a Sunday afternoon.
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